


In Good Company

by What_of_All_Those_Wayward_Priests



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: But the Death is Offscreen, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Old Age, Self-Reflection, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 12:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12935019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_of_All_Those_Wayward_Priests/pseuds/What_of_All_Those_Wayward_Priests
Summary: After decades of avoiding police detection, an elderly Harley Quinn is once again imprisoned for her crimes. Arkham Asylum has missed her. It has missed Batman, too.[Rewrite!]





	In Good Company

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as a writing exercise, but I really wasn't happy with the final product. So, I decided to rewrite the whole thing, and post it a second time :D If it seems a little different, that is why! 
> 
> Hope you like it!

For once, Harley can’t feel the ache in her bones. Joy has pushed the arthritis aside, letting sorrow drip through a sedative at the edge of her skin. But, even as the feelings roll around in her mind, mingling with the faint sounds of _laughter_ , Harley knows she isn’t alone in the high.

The Asylum has aged, too. And it is lonely.

This shift is difficult to see, of course. Arkham is one of Gotham’s eternal guardians- its purpose has never changed, and its structure is still sturdy. It is alive, as always, and breathing. 

But only from a distance. 

Inside, the cracks are showing. Too many of its mad children are dead, now. There are no voices left to greet Harley Quinn, as she sits in her familiar cell, and their absence rings loudly through the halls. But still. Even in the silence, the waves below whisper _"welcome home"_

So, with a smile, Harley lets the pain settle around her shoulders, warm and soft like a blanket. Later, she knows from experience, the sedative will throw her into sleep. And together there, in dreams, they will mourn the passing of Gotham’s elite. 

But first, they have a visitor. 

Death.

Turning her head slightly, Harley can just see his outline in the shadows. Batman. Her Batman. Standing still, on the other side of the bullet proof glass. Harley, and The Asylum, would recognize him anywhere. 

Because age, in all its savagery, looks lovely on Bruce Wayne. He wears the weight of his life like a shroud, a menacing Reaper ready to shed flesh for the comfort of bones. Decades of injuries have smoothed away the edges of his penance, leaving only the inevitable in its place. 

His fingers, she knows from experience, will crack if they caress her skin. 

_"Still"_ , she thinks, slowly sitting up on her cot, _"you shouldn't be here, huh"_. 

Even now, Wayne is strong, and beautiful. But Harley knows something truly dark must be visiting Gotham, for the oldest Batman to appear. Retirement is safer, when the Asylum aches for a taste of all its lost children. And this man, the original, is a prized piece of its broken menagerie. The one it could never keep.

This is, of course, to say nothing of the remaining staff. Many a future Harley is left here, hoping for a piece of Gotham’s sordid history. And any Bat would be a wonderful find, for an aspiring psychology expert, but the original, well. He is a monster in his own right. Nobody knows how many Bats there are, but they all suspect. And they all want to catch him now, before he fades, just to pull his brain apart as it slides out of reach. 

The thought brings a knowing smile to Harley's face. Doctors here can be awfully blind, and sometimes, when they ask who Batman used to be, they forget who he became instead. To become a vigilante, you need to be unhinged. And Bruce will take this secret to the grave in his teeth. 

"Hiya, B-man” whispers Harley, staring out at the glass. 

_"Welcome home"_ whispers Harley’s reflection.


End file.
